


same difference

by cupofkey



Series: drabble requests [10]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (beating up), Banter, Blood and Violence, F/F, Homoeroticism, Nyotalia, Rivalry, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofkey/pseuds/cupofkey
Summary: It's not easy to do your job and fend off attractive women at the same time. Chiara learns this the hard way.
Relationships: Female South Italy/Female Spain (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: drabble requests [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822141
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with more nyo!spamano I guess it's my brand now?? anyways like the tags say, there is some getting your ass kicked, it's not described in much detail and it's not overly gory or anything. just a bloody nose! but tread cautiously.
> 
> anyways I loved writing this request and there will be a funny/stupid part two!! if you'd like to see more or request something come talk to me on [tumblr](https://cupofkey.tumblr.com)!
> 
> please enjoy :)

Nothing at the party is remotely out of place, not even Chiara herself, spy as she is. From delicate crystal glasses, finely aged champagne sloshing in each one, to tailored jackets and bulging pearls, everything seems to sparkle and shine like the tears of God himself. And there’s something underneath that throbs, pulsing under that skin of glamor— a burgeoning sense of wealth, exclusivity, the sickening kind of covert classism you’d expect from a billionaire’s “private fête”.

_Nothing out of the ordinary there, then._

Chiara crosses her legs and swirls her glass around. It’s been bland for the most part, which isn’t something she’s going to take for granted, considering the kind of risky shit she has to do in a few minutes…

“Hey, is anyone sitting here?” someone asks.

Chiara has half a mind to agree, if just to sulk by herself instead of socializing like she’s supposed to, but all of that is wiped away when she glances up.

The person in question— well, she’s grinning in a way that’s both charming and completely out of place, eyes easygoing and hands in her pockets… her suit is neatly tailored, not too dramatic but just flattering enough that—

“Uh, no,” Chiara says, swallowing down the sudden burst of nerves that flares up in her throat. “You can sit down.”

_You’re a “professional espionage agent”. You eat people for breakfast. Calm down._

“Great!” the woman says. She takes a seat— Chiara opts for trying to ignore her entirely and watches the crowd for an opening instead.

“So, uh, come here often?”

Chiara turns and blinks at the woman, who keeps grinning and blinks right back. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to keep her voice soft, “this is… a party at someone’s house?”

“Yeah! So, do you?”

“I…” Chiara raises her eyebrows despite herself. “No, not really?”

The woman nods, almost knowingly, and sticks out a hand. “Gotcha. Carmen Molina, nice to meet you!”

Chiara gives it a hesitant shake. “Caterina Martino.”

“Ah, with a C?” Carmen asks.

“...Why?”

“We have the same initials,” she remarks, raising an eyebrow. “Great minds think alike.”

“T—” _Thanks,_ is what Chiara is about to say, until she realizes that Carmen is referring to her _parents_ for choosing her “name”, that she’s half a step away from stumbling into the mouth of a rabbit hole that should be avoided at all costs.

“The minds of our parents, then,” she settles on saying.

Carmen huffs good-naturedly. “Well, they definitely did something right with you.”

“Oh, er, thank you,” Chiara says, keeping her voice cool, inwardly rueing that she has a _job_ to do right now and can’t flirt back—

“Got anything planned for later?” Carmen continues.

_Is this… is this cruising? Am I getting, I don’t know, cruised on? Is that even a thing for women? Has she caught on?_

She’s about to shift the conversation out of there when something catches her eye, a certain parting of people, an emptiness in the room she can exploit— 

_Shit, an opening. Fuck it, I’m out of here._

“Actually, I’m sorry, I do,” Chiara says, putting on her best apologetically sweet smile. “I have to head out right now. But I’ll see you again sometime, Carmen?”

She chuckles, holding up a hand in farewell as Chiara gathers herself and stands up, that easy grin still on her face. “Sure. Nice talking to you… Caterina.”

_The way she said it…_

Whatever. Chiara lets the blushy facade fall the moment she turns her back completely, though if there’s a little bit of that blush left burning across her face, well, nobody needs to know about that part.

Getting into the safe room is easy. Finding the spot under the floorboards where the _real_ safe is crammed is significantly worse. By the time she finally pries up the trapdoor, it’s been entirely too long, and her pulse is already racing with adrenaline as she gets to work on the lock.

_One, two, three, four… spin it, reset, second ring, count it out…_

“Ah, I was right!”

It takes every ounce of restraint for Chiara to not piss herself on the spot. Standing _right_ in front of her is Carmen Molina, eyebrows raised lightly and hands on her hips, her suit jacket gone.

“You,” she continues, “are like me. So I’m sorry in advance!”

Chiara starts to get off the floor— _I swear I locked the fucking door, didn’t leave a trace, I swear—_ only for a slick leather loafer to slam into her jaw with a shattering _pop—_

“I’ll just be on my way,” Carmen says. “It’s a shame. You’re seriously gorgeous. I mean, I was looking at you the whole time, that kind of gorgeous. Not the best thing for a spy to be. Rest well, okay?”

Chiara can’t make her mouth move— everything is screaming pain and numb at the same time, her head pounding with a maybe-concussion radiating from where it hit the hardwood, her brain whirring with rage and fear and questions and everything in between, her body refusing to work at all. She can’t see a single thing. “Carmen” delivers another set of raging kicks, this time right into Chiara’s curled-up stomach, then another one right into her face— 

At some point, the safe clicks open, and the pain ceases for a few precious seconds. She can’t even retch.

“Thanks for finding this for me,” the bitch says.

“Fuck…” Chiara wheezes, “fuck you.”

A warm, gentle, fucked-up laugh. “You wish.”

“Yeah, I fucking do,” Chiara spits out, quite literally, her throat and jaw struggling to work properly, her tongue swimming in the blood running from her nose.

“I guess we agree on something!” Carmen chirps. “It was nice to meet you… well, Caterina, for now. Get to know each other sometime?”

“I’m…” Chiara slurs, creeping her hand across the floor to her thigh holster. “Gonna fucking kill you. Gonna kill you for this.”

Another swift kick to that creeping hand, one that forces a cry out of her mouth.

“Rude,” Carmen chuckles. “I’m out. Bye!”

“You bitch,” Chiara says, hoarse, everything is spinning, “bitch, _puttana,_ gonna fucking—”

It’s too late. The door clicks shut, leaving her curled up on the ground, bleeding all over the place, heartbeat roaring in her ears.

 _I’m gonna find Carmen Molina again,_ she thinks, _or whatever the fuck her real name is. I’m gonna find her, and then I’m gonna beat the shit out of her, and then we’re really gonna see who’s fucking who._

_Who’s— who’s fucking up who._

_God, I want to die._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok part two! first of all this is 100% inspired by [the eye-talian scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dojZx82n73U) from inglourious basterds; it's required watching, so please take a look at that before reading if you haven't seen it already lol. secondly, I will have all translations in the notes at the end. thirdly, this is SO stupid and the vibes are SO moronsexual, which I think is really iconic for everyone involved.
> 
> feel free to check out [my tumblr](https://cupofkey.tumblr.com) for more fuckery! please enjoy :)

“I cannot _fucking_ believe,” Chiara mutters—

“What?” her brand-new partner helpfully chimes in, turning to her with a wide grin.

“You,” Chiara spits, shooting back the best I’m-fucking-pissed glare she can muster, although the inside of her head is whirling with something more akin to pure bewilderment than rage. “I can’t believe you. I hate this. Why…”

 _Why the fuck are you working for my agency now,_ is what Chiara wants to say, but the words can’t seem to make it past her churning stomach.

“Well,” says Isabel Fernandez Carriedo (which is what it said on her briefing packet. Chiara did not do any digging, at all, whatsoever. She did not spend three furious weeks on a manhunt for “Carmen Molina”. She did not lose sleep over a couple loose buttons on a certain someone’s shirt. Not at all.)

“Well,” says Fernandez, “I guess it was time for a career change.” And she punctuates the statement with another show-stopping grin, pushing her windswept hair out of her face and holding out a hand to Chiara.

 _This bitch,_ Chiara thinks. She doesn’t take the proffered hand.

“Are we ready to go inside?” Fernandez says. “It’s getting kind of cold.”

“Sure, _Carmen,_ ” Chiara says, shoving her hands into the pockets of her suit in a gauche, sloppy imitation of Fernandez’s gauche, sloppy self. “And don’t blow our damn cover.”

“Like you did last time,” Isabel— Fernandez— chuckles, ducking inside before Chiara can roundly beat the shit out of her for that.

 _Like she beat the shit out of me last time,_ her brain helpfully supplies. 

_Jesus almighty, do I hate this._

Deep breaths. Chiara slips into the hall and tries to keep her focus on the mission at hand.

Inside, it’s another smorgasbord of too-rich people with entirely too much time on their hands, milling about and chatting politely. Fernandez is waiting for her— she plasters on a horrible smile, and they walk leisurely toward the back of the room near the stairs.

“ _Allora,_ ” Chiara says, “ _dove l’hai vista?_ ”

“ _Vista,_ ” Isabel repeats, making an absolutely idiotic hand gesture, and Chiara’s heart starts to sink. “Sí! Buena… _bella— bella vista!_ ”

“ _Che cazzo, sei scema?_ ” she whispers— “ _Non parli neppure italiano, vero?_ ”

“Italiano, sí,” the _fucking idiot_ says, and now people are starting to look a little weirded out. “Lo hablamos!”

“Carmen,” Chiara whispers, and even the act of just saying that _name_ makes her sick, but their entire mission is about to fall apart— “They’re going to fucking kill us. Do you not know Italian. They said you knew Italian. Please fucking stop speaking Sp—”

Isabel laughs _entirely_ too loud for the situation, drawing even more attention. “No hablo inglés— ¿te acuerdas? Soy italiana.”

At this point, Chiara is torn between a genuine terror for her life and a crushing sense of humiliation. _You got your ass kicked by this fucking moron,_ her brain reminds her. _You got outsmarted by “soy italiana” and wasted a whole chunk of your life thinking nonstop about “no hablo inglés”. Think about that for a moment._

“Speaking Spanish here,” she hisses out, “is the worst possible thing you could do. This is the Lettiere estate, do I have to say it like this for you, idiota, todos son italianos—”

“Come on, what is it? _Mamma mia, cavolo,_ all that,” Isabel says, making another stupidly stereotypical hand gesture, “it always works for—”

And then the grin slips off her face, right as a hulking man in a suit slides into Chiara’s periphery.

“ _Mi scusi,_ ” he says, face steely, and he plants a solid hand on Chiara’s shoulder, “ _prego, seguitemi._ ”

“Todos son italianos,” Isabel says, her face white. “Oh, god. Run.”

Chiara shoves the man away, and they do exactly that, weaving through the pulsing, jostling crowd, bursting out of the side door into the night and booking it to the escape car. Gunshots ring out from somewhere behind them— Chiara almost can’t hear them over the stream of _shit fucking bitch whore stupid ass motherfucking dunce_ spilling out of her mouth, the wheezing in her throat, the rushing blood in her ears.

At some point, everything stops blurring together— they stumble into the car and speed off, Isabel weaving through country backroads until the headlights behind them are long gone— and they’re sitting there silent, a couple hours from HQ, muddy and sweaty and—

“Hey, chill out,” Isabel finally breathes out. “We’re good.”

“I’m _chill!_ Even though I almost _fucking_ _died!_ ” Chiara says, though it comes out as more of a shriek than anything.

“Not… not very chill,” Isabel says slowly, holding up a hand, the other one turning the steering wheel, “but I’ll take it. Understandable.”

“Yeah. That was fucking awful,” Chiara spits.

Isabel bites her lip before a smile rises to the surface, like she can’t help it, like it was just a dumb little mistake that happens all the time.

 _I bet it does happen all the damn time._ Chiara swallows and tries to breathe and be _chill_ and not pull out every strand of hair on her head.“How in the _hell_ are you still alive?”

“Well,” Isabel starts, looking sheepish, “I meant it when I said it usually works. None of the old rich people ever seem to know the difference when I pretend to be Italian. So I just, uh. Put it on my list. Bullshitted my way past the testing. If anyone gets nosy I just turn up the charm. Not super hard.”

“Not super hard,” Chiara repeats. “Not super hard. You know what else isn’t super hard?”

“Uh, what.” Isabel bites her lip again— Chiara is one stupid little giggle away from decking her in the face and killing them both.

“Reading the _fucking briefing,_ you fool,” she grits out, “knowing that the Lettieres have a rivalry the size of the moon with a couple Spanish families, knowing that Lettiere is a fucking _Italian_ name? Did you really think—”

Isabel does the giggle. Chiara’s brain feels like it’s bursting out of her ears.

“I’m sorry,” Isabel quickly says, stifling another giggle. “I’m sorry. It’s the adrenaline. I’ll be more careful about it next time. And hey, I got us out of it, didn’t I?”

“You are a fucking idiot,” Chiara says. “I almost died.”

Isabel grins, shrugging. “Well. I guess charm can only get you so far.”

 _And it got you pretty fucking far,_ Chiara finds herself thinking, _and you’re really good at it, even when you were kicking the shit out of me, even when you were being completely reckless and thoughtless and—_

_Oh, God._

“I’m going to sleep,” Chiara curtly says, “so don’t talk to me.”

“Okay!” Isabel chirps.

Chiara closes her eyes, trying not to think about Isabel’s broad grin and firm hands, about “you’re seriously gorgeous” and “soy italiana”. Predictably, she fails miserably.

(It’s not until much later, when they’re about to enter city limits again, that Isabel turns to her with a shit-eating grin.

“So, uh. Did you like my Italian impression?”

“Fuck. Off.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allora, dove l'hai vista = so, where'd you see her?  
> buena / bella vista = beautiful view!  
> Che cazzo, sei scema? Non parli neppure italiano, vero? = What the fuck, are you stupid? You don't even speak italian, do you?  
> Italiano, sí, lo hablamos = Italian, yes, we're speaking it!  
> No hablo inglés— ¿te acuerdas? Soy italiana = I don't speak English, remember? I'm Italian :)  
> idiota, todos son italianos = idiot, they're all Italian  
> Mi scusi, prego, seguitemi = excuse me, please follow me
> 
> [chiara the whole time:](https://m.imgur.com/gallery/cZ4IS)
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
